Wednesday, September 08, 2004

...Early Morning Goochings

I have a massive fear of death to the degree that just thinking about the fact I will one day cease to exist can send me into major panic attack mode. Ironically, when this happens, I feel like I’m going to die. No amount of logic (“You won’t be around to worry about it, so what’s the big deal?”) or sappy platitudes (“If you spend all your time worrying about dying, you aren’t going to do much living”) or religious beliefs (trying to convince myself there really is such thing as Heaven) does anything to help. When I was a kid I comforted myself by imagining that by the time I grew up medical science would have improved to the point where living forever would be the norm.

I’ve yet to hear an adequate explanation as to why you are expected to tip in accordance with the price of your bill when you eat at a restaurant. Is it somehow harder to carry a plate holding a $40 lobster to a table than it is to carry a $5 cheeseburger? I can see tipping based on the size of your party, but tipping based on price doesn't make any sense.

Isn’t it a bit disingenuous when people complain about athletes not playing “for the love of the game”? Seeing as sports is how these guys make a living, this comment to me is just as ridiculous as someone chastising me for not doing my job for the love of selling integrated audio-visual technology presentation systems that help people communicate information in large groups. I mean, would you criticize a Wal-Mart employee who argued with his boss for proper compensation, working conditions, etc. At what salary level do you lose the right to complain when you don’t think you’re getting what you deserve?

Something I fear worse than death? Confrontations. I’m the type who won’t tell the waiter when he screws up my order, won’t speak up when I think I’ve been overcharged for an item at the grocery store and at this very moment I’m working up the guts to go back to the mechanic who fixed my car to tell him the same problem has reoccurred. I think it all boils down to a deep-rooted fear of people associating me with being a nuisance to them.

The few times I’ve shaved my goatee most of the people who I’m close to have encouraged me to grow it back claiming I look better with than without. While I tend to agree, I get a little offended by the underlying message behind the suggestion: Your face looks better when a good percentage of it is obscured by hair.

I haven’t lost all of my jealous tendencies. The first and biggest fight I ever had with my wife came just a few months into our relationship, almost 4 years ago. We had run into her most recent ex-boyfriend at a restaurant/club and I couldn’t get her to agree with me that he was fat.

I am a proud American, but I consider it a sign of the overall lack of taste and intelligence of the American people that the consistently brilliant "Scrubs" isn’t by far the highest rated show on television.

When I was single, I never knew how to react when I’d see a really good-looking guy with a mediocre-looking woman. Should I be happy that one of the better players in the game had left the competition, making it easier for guys like me to play? Or should I be mad that the guy just screwed up the curve?

I’m not just fishing for compliments when I admit that yes, I’ve had the fantasy about being a porn star before, but no, I’m nowhere near big enough to even be considered for a position.

I could retire tomorrow if I had a dime for every sitcom that ever had a scene resembling this -
Person A: Person C is the biggest blowhard, idiot, low-life, good-for-nothing, untalented, useless, egomaniacal, is...standing..., huh?

A source of much guilt for me is the fact circumstances prevent me from spending as much time as I should around my dogs.

It was recently revealed to me that I have something of a friend of a friend of a friend connection with the drummer of Hoobastank . Actually, it’s more of a son of a friend of a brother-in-law type connection. While I’m on the subject, I saw No Doubt at a tiny club in Berkeley about the size of my living room in the Summer between my junior and senior year of high school (1990). The main thing I remember was that guys were stuffing $1 bills down (then brunette) Gwen Stefani’s pants.
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